Aethereal Muses: “Free me from this witch’s prison.”

A weekly compilation of collected microfictions composed by yours truly. Follow me on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram for daily dabs of fiction. If your time is short, these are shorter!

Copyright © by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

Featured image art generated by Jason H. Abbott using starryai

I aim the pistol at him. He smiles. “That’s pointless.” “You gained the powers of Superman,” I say. “You used them to become a dark lord trope.” “And you’re not even a Batman.” I shoot. He lets it hit. The kryptonite bullet kills him. “No, but I am crazy-prepared.” Kettle whistling, the animated potbelly stove waddled forward on cast-iron feet and Jessie ducked a near beheading from a whipped stovepipe. Anne kicked it to no effect. “Careful, you nitwit!” “What is this thing?!” Jessie coughed in flung soot and smoke. We make an effigy in clay As God made Adam The son we shall never know Into the river we step And mourn him Dissolving Vanishing Into its flow A babe cries In the reeds Shielded from robber’s arrows By his slain family An orphaned son For orphaned parents “The panel’s open!” Ted radioed. “Someone’s cut—” “We’re the first to reach Jupiter,” Ron said. “There’s—” “Something’s out here on the hull!” “What?” “Wings!” “What?” Silence. “What’s—” An empty EVA helmet drifts in the void. Something bangs the airlock. He gasps seeing the minotaur enter his shop. Clutching a porcelain vase, the potter trembles. The bull-man carefully walks to the counter, breaking nothing. “I’ll buy two,” he says, paying in silver coins. The potter blinks. “What? Expecting something else?” As a little girl, I found a lidded cauldron in my aunt’s basement. Inside was a wizened mummy seated in a fetal position. I dropped its lid when a desiccated head moved and stared. “Free me from this witch’s prison,” he said, “and I will teach you true magic.” The child’s room is a static maelstrom of interconnected, elaborate, non-euclidean Lego constructs. “Our son sees the world differently, Professor. But can you explain this?” The mathematician pales seeing it whole. “He calls it, Azathoth’s Cradle.”

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